Tempest
by Cailin na hEireann
Summary: A storm is about to hit Newarre. But this isn't just any storm, and the consequences will change this sleepy little town forever.


**Dear God, I am DYING. Why can't The Doors Of Stone be out now?**

**Disclaimer: Patrick Rothfuss owns this world (lucky git). I'm just messing around in it. No profit is being made whatsoever.**

It was early morning and the Waystone inn was empty save for its usual companion: silence.

The quiet was thick and soft, and it flooded the room with the uncomfortable stirring of unease. Outside, the birds were so still and soundless it was like they had never existed.

In his room upstairs, Chronicler rose from sleep and got dressed quickly, ears straining to hear something. Anything. The silence unsettled him, even though he had become quite used to it over the past few days. This was a new kind of quiet, and it set his teeth on edge.

Crossing to the desk near the door, he opened his satchel and set out his pens in a neat, orderly little row. He picked them up one at a time, checked them, nodded to himself and then carefully put them back. He proceeded to his writing pad and performed the same procedure, scanning the pages quickly for smudges and ink blots.

This was his early morning ritual; he had been doing it for years.

Once this was accomplished, he shouldered his satchel and opened his room door quietly, peering out into the hall. It was silent and dark.

Cautiously, he trotted softly down the stairs to the main body of the inn. The bar was in its usual immaculate state of cleanliness; he wondered fleetingly how early Kvothe got up everyday in order to make this place as spotless as it always was.

No lamps had been lit, and the room seemed to shrink with the absence of light. It was still early morning, and outside the window, the sky was dark and forbidding.

Chronicler threw his satchel onto a nearby stool, intending to go and examine the clouds gathering outside. It was only when he turned towards the window that he realised with a start that someone else had beaten him to it.

He instantly recognised that person as Kvothe; silhouetted against the window, his hair stuck up on end in an unruly mess, and Chronicler guessed he had managed very little sleep. He had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring intently out the window.

He didn't seemed surprised when Chronicler came to stand beside him, following his gaze out into the town. From there, it was clear that the dark clouds were more than just a passing shower of rain; a storm was building, and a strong one at that.

Kvothe seemed to be thinking along the same lines. 'Another wagon-tipper tonight, then' he said, his words more a sigh than a voice. His intense green eyes watched the gathering clouds carefully, analysing them with the ease of someone who knew this kind of weather well.

Chronicler nodded his agreement, fiddling with the string holding the circle of iron around his neck. He briefly thought to ask where Bast was, but decided against it when he remembered the foul mood the boy had been in last night. Best not provoke that.

Kvothe turned away from the window dismissively, striding back to the bar. Chronicler followed, uneasy, glancing back towards the sky.

He had never understood the fascination some people seemed to take in dangerous weather. Even at the University, where students who studied naming were encouraged to watch and listen to a storm, he could not bring himself to wander out into the middle of such a treacherous situation. It went against every instinct he possessed.

His eyes stayed on the swirling grey and black for a long moment, and then he shook his head and resolutely took his regular seat at the bar.

Kvothe looked at him. His eyes were as deep and dark as pond water, and he chewed his bottom lip absently. 'So,' he mused, fingers tapping the worktop lazily, 'should we wait for Bast to return from wherever on earth he is, or continue the story without him?'

Chronicler frowned. 'Where did he go?'

Kvothe shrugged. 'God only knows. He came back late last night and then left early again this morning. He could be anywhere.'

'Oh.'

Chronicler thought for a second, scrubbing at the nib of his pen idly. 'Where did he go last night?'

Chronicler remembered the boy heading out into the darkness through his window, without offering any explanation other than 'business'. Kvothe was right; he could be absolutely anywhere. But Chronicler was beginning to suspect he knew what Bast's so called 'business' might've consisted of.

Kvothe shrugged again. He didn't seem particularly worried. Obviously the innkeeper trusted his student a lot more than Chronicler did.

The red-haired man seemed to weigh his options for a few more moments, and then sighed and shook his head. 'No. We had better wait for him to come back before we go on, or he'll sulk for weeks. I'll use this spare time to run a few errands.'

He looked at Chronicler. 'Anything you'd care to do in particular?'

Chronicler shrugged, smiling slightly. 'I'll just wander around the town, I think. I haven't properly explored it yet, and I'm sure the people will think it terribly rude if I don't go out to talk with them at least once during my stay here.'

'Excellent. Well, then. Take your time, and keep an eye out for Bast for me, will you? I'll meet you later on.'

Kvothe shrugged on a jacket and grabbed a hat as Chronicler stood, stretching idly. He decided to take his pens with him; if he was going to chat with the locals, he may get a few pennies worth of work done.

They left through the front door, Kvothe locking it behind them.

'So, how are you enjoying our little corner of the world?'

Chronicler turned when he heard Mary's gentle voice behind him. The young woman was wearing a friendly, if tired smile. He returned it easily.

'It's lovely. Quite different from what I'm accustomed to, you understand, but I can see the appeal in living here. The trees are certainly beautiful in autumn, and the people are exceptionally welcoming.

Mary nodded, pleased with his answer. 'And how long do you plan on staying?'

Chronicler hesitated, trying to think quickly. 'Well, my horse was robbed out by Abbot's Ford a few days ago. I don't know if I'll be able to get another for another few days at least. But it's alright, I really don't mind all that much. The innkeeper and his assistant are both very friendly, and I've grown to enjoy their company.'

'Grown to?' Mary's smile sharpened, becoming a grin.

Chronicler laughed. 'Kote is a good man, but Bast can be a bit of a nuisance at times. I wasn't too certain about him for a while, but my opinion of him has improved.'

Mary rolled her eyes. 'Ah, yes. I understand what you mean. That boy is nothing but trouble. Charming, but trouble all the same. Sometimes I wonder at how patient Kote is with him. I don't think I'd be able to manage that.'

Chronicler smiled, taking a second to glance around quickly. From where he was, near the smithy's, the darkening sky cast a shadowy glow on the road that crawled slowly ever closer, engulfing the town as it went. It was a foreboding sight.

On the far side of the street he caught a glimpse of Kvothe talking rapidly with Old Cob, balancing a box of something easily on his hip. With his other hand, he was making a series of extravagant gestures to emphasise the his words. Cob was laughing, so Chronicler guessed it was a joke of some kind.

He turned back to Mary, matching her smile with one of his own. She nodded in Kvothe's direction. 'A good man, indeed. Very young though. I'm never sure if it would be considered rude to ask his age; would it, do you think?'

Chronicler shrugged, trying to formulate a reply that wouldn't come across as suspicious, when suddenly the young woman frowned, concern in her eyes.

'What happened to his hand? He looks mighty beat up.'

Chronicler stiffened. Kvothe's hand, the one being used to steady the box, was wrapped up tightly in a bandage that was slightly flecked with blood. It was one of the results of last night's encounter with the soldiers. How was he going to explain it that Mary?

He thought quickly, finally deciding on a plausible story. It wasn't particularly kind to Bast, but there was nothing he could do about that.

'Oh, it's just a minor injury, don't worry. Kote got it last night. Bast accidentally slammed something shut on it. Hurt like hell, and there was a bit of blood, but I don't think he broke anything.'

Mary frowned again. 'Poor lad. I caught my fingers in the door a few weeks ago. They still sting a bit.'

She sighed, flexing her fingers absently. Then she glanced up at the sky, worrying at her lip. 'Big storm coming tonight. I'd better lock some things up before the wind hits.' She waved, and quickly hurried off down the road.

Chronicler sighed and took a bite from the apple he'd bought in the tiny village shop. It was sharp and bitter, but still quite tasty. Idly he wondered how all the apples grown around here seemed to taste so good despite the rather unpredictable weather.

Speaking of. Glancing up again, he noticed nervously that the storm clouds were now as black as pitch, and were concentrated in one tight ring of darkness. He could already feel the wind scuttling along his skin, bringing with it drops of cold rain.

He looked over at Kvothe, who was just saying goodbye to Cob. The red-haired man met his eyes and gestured towards the sky, then managed to arrange the box on his hip so he could raise both hands, long fingers splayed. Then he closed one hand, but left the other open.

Fifteen minutes. Chronicler nodded, then watched as Kvothe hurried away down the street, red hair flashing like a polished copper penny.

It was exactly fifteen minutes later when Kvothe emerged from the hardware shop, carrying a worn leather bag over one shoulder. Chronicler watched as he paused to absorb how fast the storm had grown within those few minutes: what had previously been a fairly strong breeze was now a gale powerful enough to unbalance a person, and the rain was beginning to drive into the ground with greater speed and ferocity than before.

Kvothe had been wrong, Chronicler thought. This wasn't a wagon-tipper. It was something far bigger, far worse.

Their eyes met and Kvothe motioned quickly with one hand for him to cross the street and follow him back to the inn. He didn't have to ask twice; the scribe was already jogging over as fast as he could with his armful of writing tools weighing him down.

The road was now deserted. All the other townsfolk had disappeared inside their houses, having sensibly decided to tie some of their lighter stock down beforehand. Chronicler was unnerved that even these people, people who had lived with erratic weather conditions all their lives, were so visibly nervous about this storm.

He quickened his pace to reach Kvothe, and the two immediately ran to the inn and got themselves inside, slamming the door shut behind them.

'God's body' Kvothe breathed, dumping his bag and going to watch the storm at the window. His hair stuck up on end, and he was drenched with rain. 'I haven't seen anything like this since my early childhood. This is incredible.'

Chronicler joined him, and the two stared outside in awe for a minute or two, watching the wind bend the trees to an almost impossible angle and lightning rip open the clouds, like some great god tearing the fabric of the sky.

Even Chronicler had to admit that he could see why arcanists at the University were so entranced by sights like these: what force, imagined or otherwise, could ever hope to compete with such unbroken power?

Kvothe's voice suddenly spoke, sharp and panicked, like the crack of a whip.

'Bast. Oh no. Where's Bast?'

Chronicler froze, mind racing.

Bast was still out there.

Kvothe moved so fast Chronicler didn't even see him; he only noticed that the red-haired man had wrenched open the door when a blast of ice cold air slammed into the scribe, sending him backwards a few staggering steps.

When he regained his balance, Kvothe was gone.

'Blacken Body of GOD!' Chronicler swore, dancing with indecision. Half of him pleaded that he stay inside, safe, and let Kvothe go and find his student by himself; after all, it was basic instinct. Anything could happen out there.

But he couldn't just let Kvothe out in that storm alone. The red-haired man had been severely injured the night before; surely he shouldn't be wandering around in weather like this by himself.

For whatever reason, Chronicler found himself sprinting after him.

Stepping from the safety of the inn's doors, he was engulfed by wind so strong it felt like the strength of a hundred waves surging around him. He stumbled, fell to his knees on the muddy ground. When he looked up, the world was a confusing tangle of trees and rain and sound. It was terrifying.

'KOTE!' He shouted, twisting and turning his head wildly, trying to get a glimpse of him. Faintly, he could hear Kvothe's voice over the thunder and wind, calling desperately for Bast.

Chronicler's eyes scanned the place quickly.

There. A drop of burning red in the otherwise colourless landscape, at the far end of the road.

Kvothe was standing there, soaked to the skin, hands cupped around his mouth. 'Bast! Bast, where are you?' His voice was becoming increasingly frantic.

Chronicler scrambled to his feet, slipping and sliding on the mud, and struggled to cross the road in small, hurried steps. Lightning crackled, and for a split second the town was lit up in pure dazzling white. Thunder followed a moment later, squeezing Chronicler's head with the sudden pressure. He groaned, and slipped again in the mud.

It took him a little over half a minute to reach Kvothe, and another three seconds to get a hand on the younger man's shoulder and begin to drag him back to safety.

'Let go!' Kvothe shouted, grabbing Chronicler's hand and ripping it off him. His green eyes were wide and anxious. 'Where could he be?'

Chronicler shook his head. 'I don't know, but we need to get out of this! Bast will be okay, he'll find shelter somewhere.'

'No, he won't. He's terrible at that kind of thing!'

'Well he's just going to have to fend for himself. It's his own fault for going out on a day like this by himself.'

Kvothe shook his head desperately, his hair plastered to his pale face. 'I can't, Devan. I can't leave him. I need to find him!'

Chronicler grit his teeth and wrapped a firm arm around Kvothe, tugging him slowly back towards the inn. Kvothe began to put up a fight, and undoubtedly would have won it had he not quickly realised the sense in Chronicler's words and stopped. Instead, he reluctantly staggered back to the Waystone with Chronicler at his side, arm raised to fend off some of the howling wind.

It was only when they reached the inn door that they noticed they had an audience. In several of the windows along the street, townsfolk could be seen watching the event carefully. Some of them seemed indecisive about whether or not to risk going out to help them. Most just seemed concerned, but glad to be safe in their own homes.

Chronicler hurried inside, unsurprised when Kvothe didn't immediately follow. The red-haired man was searching intently for any sign of his student.

Chronicler was seconds away from forcibly pulling Kvothe into the inn when they both spotted a figure emerging from the woods at the far end of town. The noise of the storm was now so deafening Chronicler doubted the person would be able to hear them at all, even if they called at the tops of their voices.

The wind roared like some troubled and angry monster they couldn't see. From the inn, they watched the person stumble past the trees and begin to run down the road, unnaturally agile on the slippery mud. Instantly, Kvothe recognised him as Bast.

Again, Chronicler barely managed to restrain Kvothe from sprinting out to help his student. However, this time Kvothe seemed more wary of walking out into such a storm, and instead opted for calling for Bast to hurry, rather uselessly. There was no hope of Bast being able to hear him over the howling of the wind.

Bast was halfway there when the wind suddenly surged into a roaring tempest: Chronicler watched with horror as tiles were ripped from the roofs of houses and hurled around as easily as raindrops. Bast staggered to a stop, now close enough for his terrified expression to be seen by Kvothe, who visibly struggled against the urge to rush out to him.

The wind was a screaming , shrieking thing now, the sound almost piercing to the ears. More and more tiles were thrown around Bast, missing him by inches, until finally one clipped him on the side of the head as it flew past. Bast yelped, and brought a hand to his face.

This was the last straw for Kvothe.

Before Chronicler could stop him Kvothe was out the door. He was immediately nearly shoved off his feet by the terrible wind, but within another second was struggling towards his student.

Bast caught sight of him quickly.

'Reshi!' he called, voice frightened. He staggered forward a few steps, just in time for a particularly jagged, sharp clay tile to be flung directly at his head.

And then, before any part of it could touch him, it simply stopped.

Everything stopped. The noise, the other flying debris, the terrible ripping sound that had accompanied the roofs being torn to pieces. Clay tiles hung in the air, frozen in place, alongside rain that was no longer driving into the ground, but dropping at a leisurely pace, like a slow passing shower.

Chronicler realised with a start that Kvothe had called the name of the wind.

And not just called it and ordered in to stop, but actually got it to hold and carry the tiles in midair, hanging metres above the ground. The rain was no longer being driven by the fierce wind; it was just ordinary, gentle autumn rainfall.

Kvothe had done the impossible, and completely halted a raging hurricane with just one unheard word and one upraised hand.

Bast lowered his arms from where they had been protecting his face, and looked around him with eyes numb from shock and wonder. It didn't take him long to come back to his senses, and he quickly ran to his teacher as soon as he was able.

Kvothe had one graceful hand out, long fingers splayed. He didn't seem to realise what a momentous feat he had just accomplished; his eyes were all for Bast's bloody face. As soon as his student was near enough, he grabbed him by the arm and hauled him towards the inn, hand still held out. It was only when they were inside the inn and the door was firmly closed that he allowed his hand to drop.

The storm roared back to life.

Chronicler and Bast stared in awe at the red-haired man, but he didn't appear to notice; he dragged his student to a nearby stool and sat him down carefully.

'Are you alright?' He asked him, voice gentle. Bast simply nodded, but raised a shaky hand to the side of his head, the bloody spot where the tile had clipped him. Kvothe's long fingers instantly went to work, pushing away strands of Bast's hair and leaning down to examine the injury. He peered at it for a few seconds, then sighed with relief.

'It's only a small cut. Long, but not that deep. There's just a little bit of blood. It could've been far worse.'

Kvothe disappeared through the door behind the bar to fetch water and stitching tools. Bast and Chronicler stared at each other in amazement. Neither seemed willingly to speak first.

Finally, Bast said, 'Did you see that?' Blood was trickling down his temple, but he didn't move to wipe it away.

Chronicler nodded.

'God's bones,' Bast breathed, eyes wide and astonished. Soon, the shock melted into excitement and such pure, unadulterated happiness that Chronicler wondered how Bast's face didn't break from the enormous smile he wore.

Inexplicably, Chronicler found himself grinning back.

Kvothe strode back in, and put the bowl of water and towel on the top of the bar. He rummaged around until he found gut and a needle, and then swore when he noticed how dark the room had got. Without looking up, he put a fingertip on candle ash left over from last night and muttered a quiet word.

The three candles on the wall leapt into flame, lighting the whole room up.

Chronicler met Bast's eyes and grinned.

Now the story could really start.

**Huh. That was kind of an odd ending. I can't think of any other way to finish, though.**

**There may or may not be another chapter to follow this. Depends on whether you think it deserves one. :D**

**By the way, I know it seems like Kvothe's got his mojo back for no discernible reason. Anyone have any ideas? (Personally, I think it was just seeing Bast in imminent danger that tripped a switch in his brain or something)**

**Thanks for reading!**

**R&R**


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